“What the Devil!” exclaimed Sir Basil Ives, beginning to raise the solid brass knocker, fashioned into the shape of a lion’s paw, for the third time. Twice he had knocked, and still no one had come to answer. The vast double doors, with the Hargate arms emblazoned above, remained firmly closed. To the eyes of the weary traveler, who had been jostled over England’s worst roads since dawn, they looked as unyielding as the doors of a tomb. Worse—thought he ironically—they looked exactly like the gates to his brother’s mind, which had been firmly sealed since birth. Sealed, at any rate, to anything rational, intelligent, or of any import.
Frowning, Sir Basil let the knocker fall and then stepped back to get a view of the upper windows of the mansion. There were candles ablaze in several, therefore the family could not all be abroad. They must certainly have received the message of his return, sent by special courier nearly a fortnight ago from France. Then where the devil were they?
Sir Basil was not ordinarily an impatient man. Indeed, some of the Baronet’s most astonishing diplomatic coups had been won by sheer persistence and a refusal to be irritated into foolishness. Impatience was one of those vices which the Ambassador considered nearly as fruitless as it was unbecoming. It had never been known to win an argument nor speed the events of the world, and nearly always resulted in some sort of imbecility. As imbecility was as foreign to his nature as a love of dirty cravats or crimson waistcoats, it was unlikely that Sir Basil would allow himself the luxury of giving in to his impatience just at this moment, when he had nearly attained the object of his journey.
Indeed, all the way from Southampton he had vowed firmly to behave as gentle with his brother as if he had been a poor unfortunate beast, and to avoid at all costs giving in to his natural irritation with him. Lord Hargate’s character was so entirely opposed to his younger brother’s (being a lover of wine, cards, and every sort of frivolity, which the Baronet abhorred) that it was a constant source of amazement to those who knew them, that they had both been conceived by the same parent. As Lord Hargate was, into the bargain, as foolish as he was weak, it was not surprising that Sir Basil, whose reputation as a brilliant diplomatic strategist was only equaled by his temperance, should avoid any unnecessary contact between them. It had certainly never occurred to the Baronet that he might someday be forced to ask a favour of his brother. And yet that day had come. The favour, besides, was of such a delicate nature, and of so great a magnitude, that the most ingratiating behaviour possible was called for. Reminding himself of this, Sir Basil suppressed the urge to beat his cane against the door. When, after some little while, an ancient butler with eyes still swollen from sleep came to answer the knock, he had managed to press his lips into something like a smile.
“Good Lor’!” croaked the butler upon seeing who it was. His eyes nearly popping out of his head, he stood stock-still, as if incapable of movement. “Good Lor’—I mean to say, it is the young master!”
Sir Basil eyed the elderly retainer with amusement. “Indeed it is, Groves. Though I think you might begin to call me Sir Basil now, if you don’t mind. I have been out of knee breeches these past twenty years at least. And do you think I might come in?”
Groves, who had been too amazed to finish putting on his coat, an operation he had neglected to complete before opening the door, stepped quickly back, blushing deeply. His withered old cheeks grew more crimson still when the Baronet stepped past him into the hall and gazed about him with an appraising glance.
“I see your new mistress has not lost a moment in taking up the latest vogue of decoration,” ventured the Baronet, having taken in with horror the new crimson wall hangings, an elaborate campaign table with feet in the shape of lion’s paws, and some other artifacts of the current rage in exotica.
The butler followed his glance uncertainly.
“Ah, yes, Your Excellency. Things have changed a great deal in these past years. Her Ladyship was in a great rush to cheer the old place up as soon as your father died, God rest his soul.”
“Well, she certainly has done something,” returned the Baronet dryly, “though I do not know if one could call it exactly cheerful. Is this what every English house looks like nowadays? I shudder to think what Iseleigh would have said, had he seen what had become of his handiwork.”
The butler shifted back and forth uncomfortably upon his feet. He held a generally low opinion of the young Lady Hargate, whom he persisted in thinking of as “new,” though she had held the title for eleven years. Happy had been the days when Hargate House had been a bastion of masculine tranquility, but those days were now long past, and Groves would not let his master’s brother see a hint of his true feelings.
“Ah, Sir—well, well! Ladies will be ladies, will they not? And I have lived long upon this earth without seeing one of ’em who will rest easy till she has made her mark upon every house she enters.”
Sir Basil met the butler’s eyes for a brief instant, and in their gaze was all that comprehension, which only affirmed bachelors can truly savour, of the absurdity of the female brain.
“Very true, very true. You are looking well, Groves.”
The butler, well pleased, made his bow.
“And you, Sir—if I may be so bold—are looking very fit. I trust France has agreed with you?”
“Ah, France! A nation as confounding as the female mind. But we had better not stand about thus.”
And with a quick glance toward the waiting coachman, which the butler instantly followed, Sir Basil drew back to remove a fleck of dust from his traveling cape, pull off his gloves, and run a weary hand across his brow.
“Good Lord, Your Excellency!” cried the astounded Groves. “You have not come all this way in a hired chaise! Come on, then, man!” continued he in an outraged tone to the bewildered coachman, who had only been awaiting his orders. “Come along! Don’t stand about like an idiot! Bring in the Ambassador’s trunks! No! No—” with a doubtful glance at the recipient of these orders—“you had better stay outside. I shall have a footman fetch ’em.”
And, snapping back to life, the old butler hastened off in search of the requisite servant. Sir Basil’s luggage was soon bestowed indoors, the coachman’s fee settled, and the Baronet’s outer garments removed. Groves was all agonized apology for having failed to prepare the Ambassador’s old apartments.
“I was not told, Sir, that you were expected.”
“Not told? How odd. Well, never mind. Only send my things upstairs and see if a footman will not unpack ’em. I have left my own man in Paris, for I shall not be above a few days in London. And do you, if you will, inform my brother I am here. I trust he is at home?”
Grove looked uncomfortable.
“I believe he is resting, Sir,” replied he, turning to leave, “but I shall fetch him. And shall I have a bottle of port sent into the library? Very good, Sir. Er, Sir—” the old man paused with an unhappy expression in his eyes.
“Yes, Groves?”
“Things—er—things are not what they used to be, Sir, if you take my meaning.”
Sir Basil soon saw what he meant. Passing up the stairs to the library, he glanced into several apartments, so transformed by the industrious Lady Hargate that they were barely recognizable. What had been for most of his youth, and a good deal of his manhood, rooms whose solid aura of masculine serenity had consoled his darkest hours, were now nauseatingly frilled up with every sort of feminine trinket. Scarcely a corner had gone untouched, scarcely an item of furniture unmarred by restless fingers and ambitious upholsterers. Still, he was relieved to see that the library was not much changed. Its commodious leather armchairs were intact, and the vast inlaid desk which had served his father and his father’s father before him was still as littered with papers as it had always been in the Baronet’s youth. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, and the shelves were still laden with books—though covered, as Sir Basil noticed with a smile, with a thick layer of dust. However, it was sufficient to induce him to pull up a chair before the hearth and stretch out his cramped legs to the heat of the blaze. After twelve hours upon the road, such comfort could hardly but induce a pleasant meandering state of mind. Soothed by the wine, the warmth of the fire, and the solid and familiar surroundings, the Baronet allowed his thoughts to wander aimlessly for a few moments.
How pleasant it was, in truth, to be back in England! His thoughts had been too full of his present troubles during all the journey from Southampton to allow much attention to the passing scenery. And yet the gentle hills and softly inscribed farmlands had done their work upon him. Even in the customary fog of this time of year, it had all seemed lovelier to him than anything in France. Indeed, he had nearly forgotten what a charming countryside it was, and when the carriage had rumbled over Westminster Bridge, allowing him his first glimpse of this fair city, what a pang had been in his heart! How much more splendid and civilized was this to anything in Paris! His first view of Regent’s Terrace, and some other of the improvements which had been worked since his departure, had filled him with pride. Say what you would, there was nothing to equal English ingenuity. The French could boast as much as they liked, but their greatest architects could not hold a candle to the best of the British master builders. And, for all their legendary elegance, they were incapable of making a man as comfortable as he was at this moment. What a pity he could not stay longer! But duty called. No, no—he would not stay above a fortnight. Only let him dispatch his present business with success and he would be on his way back across the Channel.
These musings were cut short by the sound of a heavy footstep in the corridor. Recognizing at once his brother’s tred, Sir Basil started up. The wide, welcoming smile which he had carefully arranged upon his features was destined to fall almost instantly, however.
“By Jove!” cried he, rising from his chair as the door swung open to admit Lord Hargate. That gentleman being constructed along very solid lines, his figure nearly filled the doorway. Lord Hargate was not so tall as his younger brother, but nearly twice as broad. Across his vast paunch was stretched a waistcoat of a very brilliant shade of blue, threaded through with silver and crimson. His collar points nearly brushed his ears, his cravat was knotted about a dozen times, and his scrawny calves, which seemed every moment in danger of collapsing beneath the immense weight of his frame, were done up in scarlet hose. Hargate had not inherited the same dignity of feature as had his sibling, and across the whole of his wide and almost feminine countenance was spread an idiotic grin.
“By Jove!” cried Sir Basil again, a little more restrained this time, for he had been taken aback by the increased proportion of his brother’s figure, and suspected, from the bright flush on that gentleman’s cheeks, that he had already imbibed a good deal of wine that day. “How good to see you, Hargate, after all these years!”
“ ’Mensely good, ’mensely good!” agreed the elder heartily, staggering a little in his progress toward the Baronet. There were such embraces exchanged as Sir Basil could tolerate, considering the strength of spirits on his brother’s breath, and then His Lordship collapsed into the nearest armchair.
“ ’Mensely good!” he repeated, beaming foolishly. “And t’ what my dear brother, do we owe this honour? I thought you were in France. Paris, ain’t it?”
Sir Basil managed to suppress his amazement at this marked indication of his brother’s information, or perhaps memory.
“Paris—yes. I have been His Highness’s envoy to the French court these last four years.”
Lord Hargate looked only half enlightened.
“But did you not receive my letter?” inquired the Baronet, beginning to feel that he was moving in a dream.
“Letter? No, no, I do not recollect anything about a letter. Was there one?”
Sir Basil sighed. Evidently, marriage had done little to improve the powers of his brother’s mind.
“I sent a message some days before I left to warn you of my visit. I have been called home on pressing business and hoped I might impose upon you and my sister-in-law for a day or two.”
“Ah!” No greater reaction seemed forthcoming, and Sir Basil pressed on:
“Well! You seem very well. I have not seen you since the old man’s death. Four years ago, that was.”
Lord Hargate’s expression suddenly brightened.
“Four years ago! Good Heavens! It don’t seem that long! Have you really been away four years? Well, well! I suppose you have.”
And as if something in his brain had been given a brisk shake, Lord Hargate suddenly snapped to life. With the keenest interest he demanded:
“What do they feed you in France, eh? I hear the cuisine is dashed good there. But you look slender as a knife, if you don’t mind my saying so. Ought to feed yourself properly, you know, old boy. Don’t want to waste away to nothing.”
Sir Basil smiled dryly. Here was the brother he knew.
“No fear of that, Hargate. I am fed perfectly well.”
“Ah! Well, your coat is exceptionally handsome. Did you have it tailored there? Bit plain for my taste, but a nice bit of cloth, you know. I hear the Frenchies are pretty well with lady’s finery, but when it comes to men, they cannot hold a candle to our old Hingham on Bond Street.”
Sir Basil responded with a smile that he had never heard the French tailors condemned, and then endeavoured to steer the conversation in another direction. But his brother would not leave off interrogating him about the life at Court, and whether the ladies were very pretty, and what sort of neck cloth was in fashion, and whether the wine was better on the other side of the Channel. Though seeming to have very little curiosity about any more serious matter, these points were of infinite interest to him. Sir Basil would have liked to have got straight to the point—his own point, at any rate—but saw at once that he must humour his brother’s curiosity, and providing as many anecdotes as he could muster about life at the Tuileries, he strove to do just that. Having passed nearly half an hour in this fashion, he ventured on to another topic.
“But enough about my own life, Hargate! You must tell me about yourself. You seem prosperous enough, and, I take it, happy?”
Lord Hargate’s smile faded. “Prosperous, old chap? Oh, nothing like! I wish I could say I was. But everything is so dashed expensive these days. It is all I can do to keep my poor Louisa properly clad, and the carriages in decent style. Why, it seems to me that Father was never so hard-up as I always feel! Just at the moment, by the nonce, I am particularly out of pocket. Louisa had just done redecorating the house again, and the other evening at White’s I was unlucky enough to lose fifty thousand pounds to that cad Marlborough. I cannot fathom how he manages it, but he never fails to rob me, and he is twice as rich as I, at least!”
“Fifty thousand pounds!” Sir Basil could not help crying out, “You lost fifty thousand pounds in one evening? Good God, man, you ought not to be allowed in a card room!” Especially not, he added to himself, since you have about as much wit at baccarat as you have at conversation. I cannot blame Marlborough for robbing you, as it is so easy.
“Ah, but you must not blame me, Basil,” Lord Hargate was saying with a whimper, “for I am ever in hopes of making up what I have lost. I have a horse entered at Ascot for the Winter races which I am sure shall more than compensate me for my losses at cards. And in the meantime,” he added, brightening, I suppose you could not advance me thirty or forty thousand until the next quarter?”
Sir Basil stared back in amazement. Could he believe his own ears? He had not crossed the Channel and traveled in a springless coach all day in order to sign over his fortune to his profligate brother. Quite the contrary. He had come in hopes of being granted a rather generous favour himself. Remembering this suddenly, he managed to turn his shocked expression into a kinder one.
“Oh, if only I could, my dear brother, you may be sure that I would. But if you remember correctly, I received only a pittance of your inheritance from our father’s settlement, and have, besides that, a mere nothing from the Crown to compensate me for my labours on the Regent’s behalf. A mere thirty or forty thousand pounds must last me all year.” This sounding too brusque a dismissal, Sir Basil added hastily, “However, I shall be glad to help you in any other way I can. Marlborough owes me one or two little favours himself, and I believe I may be able to persuade him to forestall his payment for a while, till it suits you to pay.”
Lord Hargate looked a little mollified at this. Indeed, his prompt expressions of gratitude were so vociferous and extravagant that they might have repelled his brother still further had not that gentleman a very real desire to make Hargate aware of his indebtedness.
“And your lovely bride?” he quickly interrupted. “I trust she is as bright and gay as ever?”
“Ah, Louisa!” exclaimed Lord Hargate after a moment, for he had not recognized at first this depiction of Lady Hargate. “Yes, yes, she is very well, thank you, although she complains daily of migraines, and tells me she had not felt well this last year. I believe it is the children, you know. She is such a delicate creature, and cannot abide their noisy playing.”
“Ah, your dear little children!” Sir Basil fairly beamed at the mention of them. Those who knew the Baronet well would have been amazed to see him look so happy at the mention of children. He was normally no more interested in babies than he was in the cultivation of turnips, but at the moment he had his own reason for seeming to love them and for pressing his brother into a detailed account of his own. “I suppose they are just beginning to talk, are they? And to show their dear little natures?”
As it happened, Lord Hargate was excessively fond of his children, and he now showed himself more than happy to narrate their most recent triumphs in the matter of learning to talk and to play with their dolls. His account lasted for some little while, and at the end of it, Sir Basil (who had endeavoured to keep a rapt expression upon his face during the whole of the lengthy and tedious narrative), declared:
“Why, Hargate, I believe you must be the happiest of men! Fancy having so much to be cheerful about! I wish I could boast so much good fortune. The life of a bachelor is very lonely sometimes, and though I have much to occupy me in my work, I admit there are times when I long for a little of these homely comforts which seem to surround you. Ah, for the patter of little feet above one’s head! What a lucky fellow you are, to be sure.”
Lord Hargate smiled his delightful agreement. He had never displayed much perception in the matter of human conduct, and never having interested himself in the ideas of the tastes of his brother, he was not amazed to hear himself thus envied. What could be more natural, after all, than that Sir Basil should wish to emulate him in everything? Through the slow fog of his mind, which was further thickened by his recent nap and the bottle of port he had drunk to induce him into it, began to creep the thin ray of an idea. He had not formerly questioned the purpose of his younger brother’s return. It was not his habit to question very much, but rather to take life more or less as it presented itself to him, without any presumption that it could be changed by his own efforts. But his wife, who was of a very different turn of mind, had managed to persuade him that all men should be married, and that any who were not thus happily attached, should be made to do so at once. Having no great ambitions of his own, Lord Hargate had come in the eleven years of his marriage to adopt those of Lady Hargate, and now, staring at his brother, he began to smile ingenuously.
“Oh, I see what you are about, Basil! By Jove, what a splendid idea! You have come back to be married, and wish Louisa and me to find the lady for you!”
Nothing could have been further from Sir Basil’s mind. For five and thirty years he had managed to escape the toils of matrimony, and he had no intention whatsoever of sacrificing his blissful solitude at this late date. He had his own reasons for praising the state of marriage, and of parenthood, Just now, but they had nothing to do with wishing them upon himself. He saw, however, that his diplomatic overtures had been too subtle for Lord Hargate. He had better get to the point at once, or risk venturing still farther into dangerous waters. With a modest expression, therefore, he hastily replied, “I could never impose so much upon you, Hargate. No, no—I fear I must envy you from a distance. I am not worthy of your felicity.”
“Nonsense, old boy!” came the instantaneous retort. “Nothing could be simpler! Louisa is an absolute miracle-worker. She’ll have you married off in no time at all, and to some pretty fair young thing, I’ll venture! Only leave it to her, and you’ll be a happier man in no time.”
In vain did Sir Basil attempt to divert his brother’s mind from this delightful prospect. Having once seized upon an idea, Lord Hargate found it difficult to let it go. So thoroughly had he been indoctrinated into his wife’s way of thinking that matchmaking had become nearly as pleasurable an occupation to him as baccarat. His eyes began to clear, his voice took on a happy, lilting tone, and he even commenced rubbing his hands together in happy anticipation. Sir Basil had little opportunity, in the face of so much goodwill, to make himself clear. Even had he actually blurted out his real feelings and demanded on the spot the very favour he had traveled from France to procure, it is doubtful his brother would have heard him. He saw that he had much better let this little blaze of enthusiasm die down of its own accord before he absolutely doused it with the truth. Determining therefore, to be as genial as possible, he smiled at the troubles Lord Hargate was already preparing to take on his behalf. The shudder he felt upon even conceiving of himself as throttled by a wife was suffered inwardly, and he even managed to beckon up a grateful smile when, despite all his urgings to remain where he was, Lord Hargate went off in search of his lady, saying that he could not wait to tell her the news.
Sir Basil, left alone once more, stared dolefully into the fire. What a tedious business this was turning out to be! Little had he imagined, when he had received that astounding letter from his solicitor some weeks before informing him that he had been named guardian to a twelve-year-old child he had neither seen nor spoken to, that he might also fall mercy to his sister-in-law’s matchmaking ruses. Suddenly the weariness of twelve hours’ upon the road overcame him. As he watched the amber and crimson flames flicker in the grate, the elegant lids began to droop a little above the keen gray eyes. That mind, which was said to have outwitted some of the most conniving brains in Europe, found itself powerless in the face of the latest development. How could he persuade his sister-in-law that he wished her not to marry him off, but rather to undertake the care of his ward? It was a delicate matter at best, and one which, exhausted as he was by the aggravations of travel and the accumulated strain of nerves, had better have been put off until another day. But Sir Basil was not destined to be allowed any respite, for in a very few moments the door to the library was again thrust open, and there, in the full glory of her yellow ringlets and the combined arts of every dressmaker in London, stood Lady Hargate.